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Half-Eaten, Out of Place

The best thing about living alone is that you can take your bra off the second you get home. You don’t even have to wait until you get into your bedroom. You can unclip it in the hall and have it pulled out of your sleeve before your ass hits the sofa. Nobody complains if you leave it there, either.

When you go to make yourself a post-work cup of tea, nobody complains that the dishes aren’t done. You can just fill the kettle around the stack in the sink. And you can take whatever mug you want too. And nobody tells you your putting too much sugar in. Nobody tells you not to have that biscuit because it’s nearly dinner time because dinner time is whenever the fuck you want. Maybe I’ll have biscuits for dinner.

Nobody tells you to put down a coaster, or to clear away that half-eaten pickle from the table before you sit down.

I stopped, piping hot cup of tea hovering close to my lips.

I don’t eat pickles. I don’t like them.

They were only in the house because they’d been left behind by the last people who’d rented it. I stared at it, sitting on the table with a big bite taken out of it. The jar was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if it was still tucked out of sight on a shelf that was too high for me to reach without something to stand on.

The worst thing about living alone is how big the house can feel. How many rooms can go unchecked. So many hiding places. There’s nobody to blame when something’s out of place. Nobody to remember whether or not you locked the back door. No explanation for why something’s there that shouldn’t be. Or for a floorboard creaking upstairs.